People always ask me why I never take aspirin when I have a migraine.
I tell them it's because I hate swallowing pills.
That's not true, because I never go to sleep without taking at least half dozen pills. Singulair I take for the losing battle I'm fighting against asthma. Sudafed I take for my nasal congestion and two allergy pills as well. Sometimes I take stuff like Dayquil or Nightquil, depending on my various illnesses that seem to be multiplying in the more recent months. But never aspirin or anything for pain. My mother gets sick of hearing me complain, that's not the only thing she is sick of, she said as she threw my father out our front door last March. She hates hearing me say "my head hurts" and always returns with two aspirin in hand. Little does she know that as soon as she turns her back, they're down the toilet or sink or out the window, whichever is nearest. Soon enough, I start to bite my tongue when the searing pain returns, only because the aspirin I would have taken would numb the pain away. Little does my mother know that the sole purpose behind taking the medicine is exactly why I chose not to take it. I don't take it to feel the pain. The pain is a nagging reminder that I am alive.
One summer, when I was all too familiar with the pains of adolescence, the kind that no medicine will ever cure, I became really sick. The local doctor declared that I had a sinus infection along with four of my friends, all of who had very different symptoms from me. Nevertheless, we all found ourselves on the same medications, and, much to our surprise, everyone got better within the next day. However, I would remain on my deathbed for another week. Within three days of my illness, I woke up in a haze. I looked at my watch and realized that it was three in the morning, yet I was more alert than I could remember in years. My worried eyes darted around the room, not understanding what had woken me up. I heard the soft pitter patter of rain on the shutters of the cabin, and I heard the soft snoring of my bunkmates. I slowly began to take in images: the bunk beds, trunks, clothes that were haphazardly strewn about the room: it was then that I realized I was covered in sweat. I was more than worried. I fumbled around for my disc man and headphones, hurriedly jammed them on my head, and prayed for sleep to come back soon.
It didn't, but from that day until the end of my illness, I walked around like a zombie. There were no stiff limbs, or vagrant moaning, but there was an attitude I carried towards everything that on a deeper level, scared the crap out of me. I was completely numb. Nothing made me happy, nothing made me sad, I was indifferent towards everything. I also didn't feel any pain. So when I sat on my bed during a four am wake up call and sliced away the skin on my wrists, I simply stared at the brightness of the pool of my blood in bewilderment. However, I had enough sense buried deep down inside to go to the bathroom and stick my wrist in cold water before I lost too much blood. I then dried off my wrist, which was numb from the prolonged exposure to frigid water, and applied a Band-Aid that was soaked through in about fifteen minutes, which started another round of frigid water/cold washcloth battles. Around six am, I collapsed on my bed, and drifted off for about an hour until the first alarm went off.
I hid my wrist pretty well until it healed up, but the experience shook me down to the core. Two days after my four am scare, my antibiotics kicked in, and I felt fine. Once I had completed my dosage, I vowed never to take anything that would numb me the way that those drugs numbed me. I'm afraid of what I might do. There is a monster that takes over me when I'm numb and when I'm not in control, and I'm afraid that that monster will bury me too far down next time and I won't be able to shake myself from what I'm doing. Next time I won't get to the sink in time.
People always ask me why I never take aspirin when I have a migraine.
I tell them it's because I hate swallowing pills.
